Memories Aren't Always Heartwarming
by ShilohHolmes
Summary: Everyone has good and bad memories. There is no exception when it comes to a certain consulting detective. 20 years ago Sherlock was put through a traumatic experience. When Sherlock is pushed over the edge, he finally cracks. Mycroft comes to help.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

John Watson

Fluffy, white clouds littered the cobalt blue sky that was suspended over the beautiful city of London. Tendrils of bliss, golden sunlight radiated from the giant, yellow ball that made life on Earth possible. The air was surprisingly fresh, and the vast streets of London weren't terribly crowded. The day could not be any better.

Walking down one of the less populated sidewalks of the city, I took my time looking into the portly display windows that looked into shops and restaurants. Savory aromas drifted out of open doors, and my stomach growled, despite the fact that I had just eaten at Sarah's house.

Sarah had invited me over for lunch, and we had had an enjoyable time chatting, and getting to know one another. I told her about my time in the military, and the cases I had ventured upon with Sherlock. She found them fascinating, and she never interrupted me when I was speaking.

Surprisingly, Sarah had some intriguing stories of her own. She told me about her childhood and her family, and of some of the experiences she had endured at the clinic. Most of her tales were humorous, and I found myself laughing harder then I had in a long time.

When I mentioned the case I have referred to as "The Blind Banker", Sarah didn't show any signs of fear or regret. She admitted that she had been terrified in the situation, but for some reason unknown to her, she was actually glad that she had gone to the circus with me. Talking to Sarah had been the perfect stress reliever that I had needed desperately.

When you share a flat with Sherlock Holmes, you begin to lack time in the social department. Not saying that the man couldn't carry on a conversation, but he was usually busy solving a case, conducting an experiment, or wallowing in his own self-pity. Even if the man did try to have a "chat", he would go on about something I didn't completely understand, or complain about how life is dull.

So as I strolled down the street, I decided that I would have to visit Sarah more often. It was enjoyable to have a completely ordinary and normal conversation with someone.

Although, there was a small part in me that had absolutely detested the time I had spent with Sarah. It was the nagging train of thought that had been attracted to Sherlock, and the danger that followed him. This small part of my mind took control when a loaded gun was aimed at me, and produced the crazy adrenaline that filled my veins in suspenseful situations.

No matter how much I tried, I could never rid myself of it. It always attempted to take control, and when I let it, an amazing pleasure washed over my mind. The only bad side I could see to letting this sensation envelop me all the time, was the fact that when I experienced it, I was usually on the verge of getting killed. Yet, life would be so dull without it.

"What!" I exclaimed out loud. Had I really just thought that? Yet, life would be so dull without it. He was intruding into my thoughts! Why, oh why did Sherlock Holmes have to invade my mind. I was starting to think let him. What a nightmare that would be!

Chuckling to myself, I made my way back home towards our flat, wondering if there would be any milk in the fridge when I arrived. Probably not. Even if there wasn't I wouldn't argue with Sherlock about who should be the one to buy some. Today was fantastic, and not even the worlds only consulting detective could tint it grey.

Sherlock Holmes

Sinister beams of sunlight attempted to sneak up on me from behind the curtains. I slowly stalked forward, quickly reaching my hand out to yank them shut. The claret curtains absorbed the light and heat, leaving me in a cold darkness. Perfect.

Today was absolutely pointless, dull, and crappy. I despised this day of the year because of a reason, vaguely known by only my family. No matter how hard they tried to make me, I would never speak of the events that had occurred on this horrendous day. Never.

I sighed and pulled my royal blue robe tighter around my body, as if it would ward off the memories I had frequently tried to delete from my mind. They haunted me constantly, but I always managed to suppress them from my train of thought.

Instead I concocted riddles, solved problems, pondered theories, and craved mental stimulation. Oh how I needed a case! Why couldn't the bloody criminals of London get creative?

The only opponent that presented to me a real challenge was Moriarty. Jim had been "inactive" for a while, and more "important" issues had been brought to my attention.

I had recently solved a case involving an American football player and his girlfriend. Simple, obvious, and disappointingly stereotypical. How do people let something as petty as love cause them to be such idiots? Even MORE stupid then normal.

The day had started out averagely, and had been a feeble distraction of the events that had occurred on this day more than twenty years ago. Ms. Hudson had prepared breakfast for John and I, and we had talked about the case I have just spoken of.

Somewhere in the back of my over-loaded head, a faint voice prompted me to open up to him about the events that had traumatized me so long ago.

_After all_, it had said, _you trust him more than anyone else on the planet_. Despite the diminutive amount of appeal it sparked in my heart, I brushed the voice away, and pondered where Ms. Hudson had hidden my skull. Probably under her bed. How boring.

I was startled from my thoughts when I felt my phone vibrate in the pocket of my pajama pants. I slid it open and read the text.

Sherlock, Mummy and I would really appreciate it if you would visit us on this memorable day. If you are ready to set aside that emotionless wall of yours, we would be happy to comfort you. –Mycroft Holmes.

I sighed and tossed my phone onto the couch. Why did Mycroft have to be so annoying? It was incredibly frustrating when someone so brilliant had his views so; hmmm what's the right word, distorted by politics and the law. Both just got in my way and caused un-necessary problems.

Mycroft has always reached out to me on this day. He always visits mummy, and he always invites me to accompany him. He says that I need to tell them about what happened, and that I need to express how it affected me. What they don't realize is that going back will hurt too much.

"What do you mean it will hurt too much?" I yell at myself, burying my fingers in my unruly hair. "You're too smart for emotion! Emotions get in the way and cloud your vision!"

I collapsed onto the couch, my mind tearing itself to pieces. I NEEDED a distraction! Something, anything!

I felt myself begin to break. Memories began to slip through cracks in my wall of defense.

"_Lookie here, a riddle you can't solve!" _The voice echoed in my mind. Fear, sadness, and regret shinned in my companion's eyes as they were held at gunpoint. My mind had been racing, desperately searching for an answer. I could feel my heart beating erratically in my chest, my breathing increasing rapidly. I remembered the feeling of my sweaty palms gripping onto the ledge of a wooden table, and an umpteen amount of tears that had been sliding down my face.

"Times up!"

BAMMMMM!

My eyes flashed open as my flashback came to an end. I hugged my knees to my chest, gently rocking back and forth on the couch. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, and I blinked them back, biting my lip. Crying was pathetic. Sadness was over-rated.

As soon as it started, any feelings stirred by my memories vanished. I picked myself up off of the couch, walking over to the telly. I slapped my forehead in frustration. It was truly a sad day when I relied on something as worthless as the telly to satisfy my boredom.

After watching an incredibly stupid reality show for an hour, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I eagerly retrieved it from its home, sliding up the screen.

Murder on Delacin Street. This one's interesting. See you there. –Lestrade

I felt excitement bubble in the pit of my stomach. Finally, something to pull me up from the depths of boredom.

Springing up from my perch on my chair, I hurried down the stairs. I stopped at the door, sliding on my long dark coat. I quickly sent a text to John, informing him of this exciting new development. My hand found the door knob, and I relished its cool touch on my hand. A new game had started.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys!:) So sorry I didn't post one of these along with the first chapter! This is my first FanFiciton, and I'm new to this website:) I have been reading stories posted by other members for months, and you guys inspired me so much, that I decided I wanted to post a few of my stories! Sherlock is an incredible TV show, created by the talented Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss:) Thanks so much to everyone that has taken the time to read this, and to those who took the time to review as well! I apologize if any of my formatting is incorrect, and if my stories bore you. Thanks so much for your time and support! If you have any stories you would like to bring to my attention please tell me. I would love to reads them! Have a great day! –Shiloh

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, much to my disappointment :)

Chapter 2

John Watson

I walked up the stairs leading into my flat, when the dark wooden door in front of me swung open. Jumping off the top step, I narrowly avoided a head on collision with my flat mate. The look on his face told me that Lestrade had contacted at him.

"Why are you so excited?" I queried. Sherlock snapped his head in my direction. I felt his blue eyes bore into my body, and I knew that he was deducing things from the tiniest of details. It was quite fascinating to think about.

"Lestrade texted. He said that an interesting murder had occurred on Delacin Street. Would you like to come along? I texted you." As he said this, Sherlock raced to the curb, holding his hand up to call a cab. In less than five seconds a cabbie responded, giving me absolutely no time to think.

_Get in the car! _ The voice in the back of my mind prompted. I sighed and approached the cab, sliding into the back seat next to Sherlock. This was obviously going to be un-ordinary and dangerous.

Looking to my right I could see Sherlock bouncing slightly in his seat. The man may have been brilliant, but he was the most childish adult I had ever met. It was slightly frightening to think about why he would get so excited about murder. The common assumption was that Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite sane. Although there might have been a little bit of truth associated with that statement, I could infer that there was something a bit deeper connected to his odd obsession.

"Any idea about what happened?" He looked at me, offering me a small, knowing grin.

"You know that I never theorize without data. Then I would start to twist facts to fit theories, instead of theories to fit facts." He said as though it was the most obvious principle in the world. I smiled and turned my head to look out the window.

"How was your lunch with Sarah?" Sherlock asked curtly. I froze. This was so unlike him. He was apparently really excited about this case.

"It was great thank you. She told me about her family, and I told her about the cases I have accompanied you on. She was quite interested in them." I eyed him wearily as I spoke, expecting an insulting "Sherlock" remark. To my surprise, one never came.

"That's nice." His words were void of emotions, and he stared out the window. Something about him seemed different, but I didn't want to pry. Sherlock wasn't exactly the person you talked about "feelings" with. He was the guy you came to when a viscous criminal committed a crime. Yup, my best friend certainly was a social butterfly.

"It was nice of you to ask." I encouraged him. It wasn't often that we had a normal conversation. If he was making an effort to talk about something other than dead people, or eccentric experiments, I was going to support him. Not that I didn't like the crazy side of him. I secretly liked coming home and not knowing what to expect. Although storing a head in the fridge was a bit too much.

"Sure." He muttered, enthralled with studying the people strolling down the sidewalks as we passed. I took this as my hint to shut up, and I pulled out my phone. Scrolling through my contacts, I found Sarah. Her picture grinned at me through the screen. I began to compose a message.

Embarking on a new case. This one is sure to be fun.

My thumb pressed the send button and I smiled. My life was defiantly an entertaining one.

We arrived at Delacin Street after about ten minutes of silence. Sherlock lingered by the cab for a few seconds, sliding on his black gloves. I walked ahead of him, arriving at the scene of the crime.

Burgundy bricks surrounded me on both sides, stretching up towards the sky. The tallness of the structures created an unsettling darkness that shrouded the entire ally way. I smiled, already aware that Sherlock would find the setting dull. I looked around, hoping to actually see a detail that would make the entire ordeal clear to me. I saw found out absolutely nothing.

Approaching the bodies I saw familiar faces, and bright yellow police tape. Lestrade was leaning against one of the walls, talking to an upset Sally. I could already assume what their argument was going to be about.

"-you do realize he'll just make his freakish deductions and leave. He never lets us in on the situation. We can figure this out ourselves." Ahh, the familiar argument produced by Agent Donovan. In a way she was right, but my companion did everything for a reason. More or less. Lestrade spotted me and gave me a nod, signaling that I could go ahead and inspect the bodies.

Two men were laid out upon the ground. A neat, clean bullet hole was on the right side of both of their heads. Their eyes were closed, and they were dressed in clothing that one would typically wear when venturing outside. They didn't appear to have struggled with their assailant, as their articles of clothing weren't torn or ripped. One thing that shocked me, was that there was absolutely no blood anywhere. It appeared as though the murder had dumped the bodies out in the open, after cleaning their wounds, and emptying their pockets.

"What's so interesting about this one?" I heard Sherlock address Lestrade. Turning away from the victims, I motioned for my friend to take a look. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Sally and Anderson before coming over to join me. I had no idea what it was about, and I didn't plan on asking.

Sherlock took a step towards me and froze. His usually cold and expressionless eyes bulged out of his head. His pale skin seemed to turn the color of snow, and a noise caused by shock escaped his lips. His gaze remained plastered on the two men in front of me, despite me attempts to get his attention. I saw him trembling beneath his clothes, and my heart skipped a beat. He was scared. And that scared me.

"What, what is it?" Lestrade asked, coming up to stand beside Sherlock. Sherlock just ignored him, staring at the men lying in front of us. I looked into his eye to see a pool of fear, regret, anger, and most of all: sadness.

"Has a riddle finally stumped the freak?" Sally smirked as she and Anderson came to join our "group".

Suddenly, I saw something in Sherlock snap. His body went rigid, and tears began to well in his eyes. His fists clenched into fists, and his mouth was pressed into a grim line. He turned away from the bodies, his eyes landing on the pocket in Lestrades coat.

As fast as lightning, Sherlock bolted from where he had been frozen in place. He rushed past Lestrade, grabbing the mans keys out of his pocket as he passed. Making his way to the street, Sherlock launched himself into Lestrades car, locking the doors behind him.

My jaw dropped. That was certainly un-expected.

Hey guys:) Hope you liked the second chapter. Don't worry, I'll reveal who the dead guys are in the third chapter. Ill try my best to update soon, if you guys like it:) Thanks so much for supporting me! Remember that I would love to read any stories you recommend. Please Review. Thanks -Shiloh


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey peoplez:) Sorry it's taken me so long to update, I've had a busy few days. Again, I am so thankful that you have taken the time to read my Fanfic. I love the TV show Sherlock, and any type of story I write will never do it justice, but it's still fun to try :). I hope you enjoy my story, and I would love it, if you would take the time to review it. Big thanks to all my reviewers! –Shiloh**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock**

Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes

I sighed as a gust of cool wind blew into my body. Walking down the steps that led to my residence, I made my way to my car. I reached into the pocket of my expensive, tailored pants to retrieve my keys, when I felt my phone vibrate.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft? Yeah, it's John. Something's wrong with Sherlock."

"What happened? Where are you?" I quickly asked, maintaining my cool. It couldn't be a coincidence, not today.

"I don't know. We arrived at the crime scene, and when he saw the bodies, he froze. Then, he locked himself in Lestrade's car. We can't get him out. Is this a normal thing for him or-" I stopped him mid-sentence.

"Where are you?"

"Delacin Street."

"I'll be there." I pressed the end button before John could say anything else. Returning my phone to its home, I jumped into my car. Delacin Street was about four miles away. I would have to go to Mummy's later.

The day had finally come. Sherlock had broken. I had predicted that it would happen, but a small part of my mind had denied the possibility. Sherlock had never spoken about what had happened twenty-eight years ago, and he had never displayed a sliver of emotion towards the subject.

I could remember that day vividly. The Saturday couldn't have been any better. The weather had been perfect. A blue sky, gentle breeze, and comfortable heat. Mummy and I were going to visit a few museums, while my father, uncle, and Sherlock had gone out fishing.

We had planned to enjoy our daily activities and then meet at our home for dinner. Uncle Richard only visited us about twice every year, and my father was going to prepare an exceptional meal.

Mummy and I had had a pleasurable time leisurely strolling around town. We had toured some museums, and browsed through some shops.

At noon we enjoyed lunch at a quaint café located on the corner of a street. We had spent hours talking and debating about various topics. I treasured time spent with my mother, as we seemed to see eye to eye on most subjects. I had been thirteen at the time, and my peers at school were all morons. The only stimulating conversations I partook in were the ones I had with my family members.

Eventually it had been time to return home. I was eager to have a sit down dinner with everyone, as we usually were all too busy to eat together. Wanting to make the most of this rare opportunity, I began to brainstorm various arguments that I would present at the table.

We had arrived home at about six o clock in the evening. Dusk had settled over London, and our home was illuminated by the small lights we had placed on our porch. My father's sedan was already parked in our driveway and I could hear noise emanating from the inside of our home. I eagerly approached the front door, expecting to find the adults side by side on the couch watching the tele. Unfortunately, a much more morbid scene awaited me.

I opened our oak door and screamed for the first and last time in my life. My father and my uncle lay side by side on our wooden floor, each with a bullet hole in the side of their head. Claret blood had seeped out of the wounds and collected into pools on the floor.

The televisions volume had been turned up, and a conversation between to characters blared in my ears. My vision began to blur, and I could feel my balance begin to disappear. Tearing my gaze away from the tragedy before me, I spotted Sherlock.

My little brother was sitting in my father's portly, leather armchair. His legs were folded against his chest, and his long arms were wrapped around his knees. His piercing gaze was frozen on the two men on the floor, his facial features blank and un-readable. Blood stained his small hands, and his curly brown hair was matted down with the gruesome liquid.

"Sherlock," I breathed. "What happened?" My mother appeared next me, and began to break into hysterics. I took my place beside her, laying her head on my chest. Sobs racked her body, and I stroked her hair, whispering words of encouragement. It was what father would have done.

Tears began to well in my eyes, and I could feel my face falling. Questions began to rise in my mind, gathering together to create a whirling tornado. How had this happened? Who had done this? Why would they do it? Was my father dead? But it wasn't the questions that drove me crazy, it was the inability to obtain the answers to them.

Eventually the police arrived. To this day I can't remember who called them, just the sound of their wailing sirens and the colors thrown around by their flashing lights.

I remember approaching Sherlock. The look in his eyes twisting my heart as I took his pale hand in mine to lead him to the car.

On the ride to our grandmothers, I'll admit that I cried. I couldn't keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks. My mother was trying her best to keep herself composed, but droplets of water streaked down her face. Sherlock, on the other hand, just stared out the window. Mother and I tried to speak with him, but he remained silent.

His silence continued on for a while. He wouldn't answer any queries presented to him by the police. Anytime someone tried to talk to him about what happened he would walk out of the room.

Mummy and I tried everything. Comfort, therapists, and trying to get him to write about what happened. He refused it all.

I could see my mom's heartbreak as she realized that her little boy was now a cold, broken remainder of what he had been. I would hear her crying in her room, begging my brother to talk to her, and it hurt me.

"Please Sherly, tell me what happened. If you want the police to catch the men who did this to your daddy and uncle, you need to let us know what happened. No one will hurt you. You're safe here. Mommy won't let anything happen to you. Please baby, just tell us what happened." My mother would beg him. But he never cracked. He would just stare at us with emotionless orbs of blue.

It was after the funeral that we accepted that Sherlock wouldn't speak of it. My mother stopped asking him to tell her what happened, aware of the pain it caused everyone. We learned to live as if it had never occurred, moving onto to "better" days.

People would stop by to offer us emotional help, but we assured them that we were fine. And we were telling the truth. My father's murder had changed us all tremendously, but we had learned to deal with it, as that was what our family did.

The only time we let ourselves be reminded of the tragedy was on its anniversary every year. Mummy and I gathered at her home to reminisce and remember my father and uncle. Sherlock never joined us, still contempt with keeping everything to himself.

Until now. This shocking development pulled me out of my train of thought just as I pulled up to Delacin Street. I spotted John, Lestrade, and couple of other people gathered around a car. Swiftly exiting my vehicle, I made my way over to their gathering.

"Mycroft, you never answered me on the phone. Is this a normal thing for him? Do you know what's going on? " John bombarded me with inquires the moment he spotted me. I held up my hand to silence him.

"My apologies but I wanted to get here as fast as I could. No, this does not happen often with him, but I have been expecting it. Yes, I think I have an idea about what's going on." I answered as I walked around to the opposite side of the car. Looking in the clear windows, I could see Sherlock curled up in the backseat.

Squatting down on my knees, I began to tap on the glass in Morse code. Sherlock ignored me at first, but after a couple of minutes he brought up his head to look at me. I continued to tap out my message, silently hoping that he would let me in. Not just in the car, but into his mind. I doubted it though; aware of that Sherlock would rather die than talk about his feelings.

Click. The noise startled me. My hand instinctively made its way to the handle of the door. I felt my fingers wrap around the cars smooth handle, and I pulled. It opened.

My brother had finally let me in.

And that was Chapter 3:) Hope you enjoyed it! Please review. Big thanks to everyone who has read this or reviewed it! -Shiloh


	4. Chapter 4

Well originally I had a cheerful author's note loaded with excuses as to why I haven't updated, but I decided to change it. You see, a couple of minutes ago I was crying. You'd probably think that my reason was stupid, but it meant a lot to me and inspired me to write this chapter. Enjoy. –Shiloh

Chapter 4

Mycroft Holmes

I opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle my younger brother. He was curled up on the backseat, his long fingers intertwined in his unruly hair. His head was tucked between his knees, and his shoulders shook gently as he cried. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure how to proceed in a situation.

"Sherlock, I'm here." The words spilled out of my mouth before I could analyze them, and I felt my voice tremor. That had never happened before. I subtly slid into the seat next to him, hoping that my presence would somehow calm him down.

"Mycroft?" The tone was filled with sadness and fear, instead of a harsh coldness. Sherlock lifted his head out of his lap, his big blue eyes locking with mine, searching for support. My heart twisted in my chest.

"Shhhh, I'm here." I placed his head on my lap, and I gently began to stroke his hair. Sherlock continued to sob quietly, his thin frame shuddering with each gasp for air. My mind raced to find comforting words, but they just wouldn't come. This frustrated me beyond belief, because I was NEVER at a loss of words. It just didn't happen.

As I struggled to strike conversation, I attempted to grasp everything I knew about the situation. Today was the anniversary of my father and uncle's deaths, Sherlock has never spoken of what had happened, Sherlock had been on a case, and he had locked himself in a car. These were not logical facts, and my brain faltered as I tried to piece everything together. It was infuriating.

The only thing I could assume that I was correct about, was the fact the Sherlock had broken. Ever since the day of the incident I had been waiting for it to happen, although I had never expected it to feel like this. Emotions didn't exactly run in the family, and Sherlock and I had never really had a moment like this. But for some reason, it felt right.

"You can tell me." Again, I spoke without thinking. Sherlock looked up at me with those heart-wrenching cobalt orbs, and I prepared myself for another rejection. It never came.

"Ok." Came the shaky reply. I lifted my gaze from my lap and locked eyes with my younger brother for the second time in an hour.

"Ok?"

"Ok." I could only stare at the emotional form in front of me. This was the difference between logic and love. This was the difference between acting and sympathy. This was the difference between intellectual equals and brothers. Sherlock Holmes was my brother, and he was willing to trust me. The emotion that bubbled in the pit of my stomach were and always will be one of the best feelings that has ever coursed through my body.

"But I need you to do something first." Sherlock sniffled. My head snapped up as I was jolted out of my train of thought, and I nodded vigorously to show him that I would do anything.

"Call mummy and John. Use both of our phones. I want them to hear this, because I am not repeating ANY of it." He tried to sound solid, but his voice cracked at the end of his request and he looked out the window, too worried about his pride to lean on me again.

"Of coarse." I assured him. Pulling my mobile out of my pocket, I quickly dialed my mother number. I patted my knee impatiently as the phone continued to ring, until she finally picked up.

"Yes Mikey?" Her gentle voice flowed from the speaker.

"Mother, I want you to remain quiet and listen to what Sherlock has to say." Most people would go on to ask further questions, but my mother knew better. She remained silent on the other line, fully aware of what was about to happen.

Next, Sherlock handed me his phone. I found John among his contacts, and selected his number. My brother's flat mate answered on the second ring.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"It's Mycroft. I want you to be quiet and listen. Sherlock wanted me to call you so you could hear the narrative he is about to share with us. Something terrible happened to him many years ago, and he is finally going to talk about it." My brief explanation was rather unclear and choppy, but I didn't care. I was finally going to find out about what had happened to my family members so long ago.

"I've called them both. We're all ready when you are." I informed my brother. Sherlock nodded and pulled his knees into his chest. He folded his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his wrists. A single tear slid down his pale face, and he wiped it away with his thumb. I gave him an encouraging smile, and he put on a brave face.

I felt my heart speed up in my chest. A mystery concerning those close to me was finally going to be resolved after twenty years. My younger brother had surprisingly opened up to me, and I had realized what it means to be an older brother. Today would defiantly be an eminent one in my life.

Sherlock cleared his throat and I unclenched my fists.

Authors Note- I hoped you guys liked the chapter. I apologize if it is a bit choppy or unclear, but I did my best:) I understand that Sherlock and Mycroft are extremely out of character, but it's part of the story. Thanks so much to all of my reviewers! I apologize for not updating, and I will do my best to do so frequently. PLEASE REVIEW! :) Thanks so much! -Shiloh


	5. Chapter 5

_Ladies and gentlemen! I am soooooooo sorry for not updating! I have had a severe case of writers block, and I haven't had any time to write:) I am so thankful to all of my readers and reviewers out there! This chapter is a bit longer than the others, and I apologize if it is OOC. I did my best, and I intentionally made the villain stereotypical and weak. Don't worry, he's just a pawn in the plot! Please Review! I hope you like the chapter! –Shiloh_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes

My body trembled in protest as I opened my mouth to speak. A cold sweat coated my body, racking my spine with unforgiving shivers. Anxiety, fear, fury, and sadness churned in my stomach and nausea threatened to overcome me. I sucked in a deep breath, and Mycroft looked at me with concern. I shook my head. Now was not the time for me to break down.

"They were murdered." My voice betrayed me, as it was hoarse and broken. I felt my heart constrict in my chest. I felt so weak, and it hurt. Mycroft placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes encouraging me to continue.

"Here's what happened," I started, my hands clenching into fists as I realized that I was going to have a "flash back" and relive the events that had caused me so much pain. I was the epitome of pathetic sentiment.

Twenty-eight years ago

"Never get a desk job, Sherlock," My uncle craned his neck around the headrest of the passenger seat of the car to smile at me. I giggled and my dad rolled his eyes.

"It's not that bad," He laughed as he pulled into our driveway. "It provides a steady income and occasional stimulation. The challenge of advertisement, development, and employment all fit together like an intricate puzzle that you can manipulate into a new picture." My dad explained. I nodded to signal that I had understood.

I soaked in every word spoken during conversations held between my father and my uncle. The two men were brilliant, and they seemed to have a firm grasp on the world around them. They both held positions in the business field, and the career was very intriguing to Mycroft and I.

My father parked our car in the driveway and tossed me the keys. I opened my door eagerly, dropping down to the pavement. I jumped up the stairs that lead up to our front door. I inserted the key into its hole, grinning proudly at the sound of the lock turning.

"It's unlocked!" I shouted happily. My uncle patted me on the back as he joined me on the front porch. He pushed open the front door, gesturing for me to step inside.

"I'm going to go help your dad unload the car, ok?"

"Ok, I'll poor us some lemonade!" I exclaimed, dashing inside. Cool air blasted my flushed face as I opened the refrigerator. My mother had made lemonade earlier, and I was eager to taste her special recipe. I grabbed the pitcher off of its spot on a shelf, and placed it on our counter. I turned to retrieve cups from the cabinets, when I saw someone sitting in my father's favorite armchair. My breath hitched in my throat as the familiar feelings of adrenaline and intrigue tingled in the tips of my fingers.

Slowly, I crept around the counter towards the living room. The television was on, and a man and a woman were kissing on the screen. I gagged. Gross. Dropping to my knees, I crawled behind the intruder's chair, hoping to utilize the element of surprise.

"Who are you?" I yelled, springing up from my perch. My target jumped like a rabbit, his hand darting to his back pocket. My eyes widened when I spotted the silver glare of a pistol. I shuffled backwards until my back hit the wall. This was not good.

"Hasn't your father ever told you that it's not nice to sneak up on people?" The man drawled. He was dressed in a fine black suit, and his light blonde hair was slicked back on his head. His outfit screamed "gentleman", but the maniac glare in his eye informed me that he wasn't quite sane.

"No sir." I kept my voice even, my eyes trailing from his gun to meet his crazed gaze. My heart was beating erratically in my chest, and the ghost of a smile graced my lips. This was exciting.

"Which one are you? Mycroft or Sherlook?" He giggled as the names rolled of his tongue. I scowled at the way he had pronounced my name.

"Why does it matter?" I countered coolly, but I was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. We both turned to see my father entering the house. My dad gasped at the sight of my new "acquaintance", dropping all of the items he had been carrying.

"What are you doing here?" My father growled, his features distorted with anger. My uncle walked in behind him, and he reacted the same way.

"You mean that you're not excited to see me?" Mr. Mysterious stepped forward towards me, and I noticed that he had hid his gun behind his back. I gulped, holding my head high.

"Howard, I want you out of my house now!" My father yelled. He took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists, but he stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes went wide with fear. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. I had never seen my father so scared.

Realization struck me as I felt a strong hand wrap around my stomach, and the cool barrel of a gun at the side of my head. I was now a hostage, putting my father at a huge disadvantage. I let my head drop to my chest as I was overwhelmed with fear and shame.

"Howard. Please. Put my son. DOWN." Fury dripped from each word as it left my father's mouth. My uncle glared at my captor, and his grip tightened around my waist. I whimpered, and my father's face turned a deeper shade of red.

"Which one is this? The mature intellectual king or the energetic genius? Mycroft or Sherlook?" Again, Howard pronounced my name wrong, and I scrunched my nose in distaste. My name was NOT Sherlook.  
"His name is Sherlock," My father seethed. "And I would advise that you let him go." I smiled at my father's courage. He was going to get us all out of this, and the evening would go according to plan. This was just a bump in the road.

"Sherlock, I hear that you are quite the smart cookie. Your daddy used to talk about you and your brother at work all the time. He would brag that you two were the smartest and most capable children in the world," Howard chuckled as if he had said a joke, and pinched my cheeks. I flinched, and I heard my father growl. "Mycroft is the best in his class; Sherlock is inventing the most wonderful things," My captor attempted an impersonation of my dad, but he failed miserably. "In fact, your father used to compare your intelligence to that of his employees. He would berate us, and tell us that our intellectual capabilities were drastically lower than yours."

Despite my current situation, I felt the corners of my lips draw into a small smile. My father had said that about me? He wasn't the type that openly gave people praise.

"Howard, why are you here?" My father's voice was steady, but I could see small beads of sweat beginning to form above his brow. I averted my gaze from my family, my eyes meeting those of my abductor once again.

Yup. This guy was defiantly crazy. His brain was scrambled.

"YOU KNOW WHY I'M HERE!" He screamed in my ear, and I recoiled in surprise. My father took a step backwards, and my uncle took a step forwards. This conversation had defiantly taken a turn for the worst.

"Look, I'm sorry that we had to let you go, but-" My father began, but he was interrupted by another angry shout.

"YOU FIRED ME!" Howard was shaking with rage, and a new wave of fear rolled over me. This guy wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger. "When I told my wife, she left me, AND SHE TOOK MY ONLY SON WITH HER!" His voice cracked, and a tear dropped onto my shoulder. I shivered.

"Howard, I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize. What's been done has been done. My son was the only good thing in my life, and you've taken him away from me. And despite all that you have said about your runt, my boy is the SMARTEST boy in the world. I'm going to prove it." I felt my assailant's hand grip my collar and I gasped. He glared at my father as he dragged me from behind the chair and onto the couch. He pointed a finger at me, commanding me to remain in my chair. I nodded.

This guy was confusing me. He wasn't like the villains on any of the cartoons the kids at school watched, or the crime shows Mycroft and I enjoyed. He didn't posses any brute strength, or a menacing mind. No, this guy was crazy. His reason for assaulting us was completely weak and stereotypical, and he rambled like a mad man.

"Howard, our sons have nothing to do with me firing you." My father took a deep breath, and opened his mouth to continue, when Mr. Crazy held up a hand to stop him.

"Shut up. Don't try to talk your way out of this one Holmes. You think your son is SOOOO GREAT. But believe me; he is going to fail you." I shivered as the effect of his words washed over my mind. My uncle shot me a reassuring look and I returned it with a nervous smile.

Howard grabbed my father by the arm and led him to the center of the living room. He pushed my dad down to his knees, pointing the gun at his head. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt terror begin to coarse through my veins.

"Kneel next to your brother." Howard commanded my uncle, and he did as told. The two men I looked up to most knelt side by side on the carpet, both of them looking up at me sadly. I felt tears well up in my eyes.

"Stay quiet and still, and if you make any attempt at escape, I will shoot this kid in the head." Howard turned his attention to me, and I squirmed. He flashed me a smile, and I returned it meekly.

"How would you like to solve a riddle?" Howard asked the question cheerfully, as though we were going for a stroll in the park. His eyes burned with a strange fire, and it scared me. I didn't know how to respond. He continued the conversation anyone.

"My son, Jamie, told me an interesting one. I'd like to know if you can figure it out." He was giggling with glee, and I felt a tear streak down my face.

"What if I can't?" I whispered. His grin grew wider at my query.

"Then I'll put a bullet in your father's brain, after I put one in your uncle's head." I felt my heart drop in my chest at this news. My breathing suddenly began to speed up, and I could tell that I was going to hyperventilate.

_This couldn't be happening. Not to me. Why was the man trying to hurt us? My daddy wasn't a bad man! This was all a_ _dream! The police would arrive soon. Mommy would come and let me cry into her shoulder, and Mycroft would teach me how to deduce things about people. Everything would work out fine. _All of these thoughts shot through my mind, and I closed my eyes.

"Look at me, Sherlock." His voice was commanding and quiet, and I had no choice but to meet his eyes. He reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a small piece of paper. He handed into to me, and I accepted it with quivering hands. The riddle was scrawled out in messy handwriting.

You are standing on the top of one of two solid metal pillars. They are both exactly one kilometer apart from each other and they both stand one kilometer high. There is absolutely nothing around these pillars, but you have one small twig, one small rock, and an unlimited supply of rope. Using only the materials named, how can you get from the top of the pillar that you are on to the top of the other pillar.

I gulped. _What was a kilometer? I was never good at math. Why was I standing on a pillar? What did it look like? What was surrounding me? How did I get the rock and the twig? What kind of rope did I have? _My brain was buzzing with thoughts, and I felt like I was going to vomit.

"What's the answer?" Howard prompted impatiently. His fingers trembled anxiously, and he brought his gun up to the temple of my uncle's head. Black spots began to spot my vision, and it was becoming difficult to breathe.

"Howard, he's only six years old," My father pleaded, his voice desperately laced with fear. "Please take a moment to think about-"

"SHUT UP!" BANG! The ear-splitting bam of the gun shot rang in my ears, and tears began to flow down my face. I brought my hands up to my face, sobbing into the warm material of the couch. I heard my father scream, and Howard cackle. I was terrified.

Howard side stepped as I opened my eyes, and I cringed at the sight before me. A cold numbness began to surface in my feet and hands. I felt my heart stop in my chest.

The lifeless body of my uncle lay crumpled on the floor. Claret blood was seeping from the wound in his head, pooling around him on the floor. I turned away, unable to look at the most painful thing I had ever seen,

Dizziness began to overwhelm me, my emotions swirling around in my head. I stumbled off of the couch, trying to make my way to my father. I desperately wanted him to wrap me in his arms, and to tell me that everything was going to go away. I was stopped when Howard pushed me back onto the couch roughly. His hand connected with my chest, knocking the wind out of me, causing me to burst into a fit of coughs.

"ANSWER MY RIDDLE!" He screamed his eyes wide with rage. I covered my face with my hands, trying to escape the terrifying scene in front of me. I felt his strong hands wrap around my wrists as he ripped my hands away from my eyes.

"YOU CANT SOLVE IT CAN YOU? THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES CAN'T SOLVE MY RIDDLE!" He laughed, turning around to face my father. His finger tightened around the trigger, and I was overwhelmed with a paralyzing fear.

BOOM!

Time seemed to stand still as my father slumped to the floor, dead. My heart stopped beating, and I couldn't breathe. The cold numbness I had been experiencing earlier overtook my body, and I couldn't move. All I could do was stare. Stare at the dead bodies of my family.

At this point, I didn't care about Howard anymore. I couldn't feel or hear anything. I was completely oblivious to the world around me. Taking small steps, I slowly approached my father and my uncle. Tears slid down my cheeks, as I felt my world shatter.

I lay down in between the two bodies, holding the cold hands of each of the dead men. My fingers searched for a pulse, but my desperate thread of hope was lost within a matter of seconds. They were gone, and it was all my fault.

After a few minutes, blood began to soak my hair and my shirt. My head was swimming, and I still couldn't tell what was going on around me. I kissed my father on the cheek, after doing the same thing to my uncle. It was over.

I made my way over to my father's arm chair, vaguely aware that Howard had left. I curled into a ball, tucking my head into my knees. I cried for a few minutes, but soon the tears stop coming. The coldness that had been spreading through my body finally reached my chest, and all of the emotions I had been feeling disappeared into a hollow void. Only one thing was on my mind.

My uncle and my father were dead. And it was all my fault.

_I really hope everybody enjoyed it:) It was hard to write, and I understand that Sherlock is probably OOC. The villain wasn't very good… but I tried lol:) Congratulations to the Sherlock cast and crew for their nominations and wins at the BAFTA's! Thanks for reading! Please review! -Shiloh_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hola! I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to update! I took an amazing trip to New Orleans, and I was unable to bring my laptop with me:( I felt terrible for making everyone wait, so I wrote this chapter as soon as I got home. Sort of… Anyway it is a pretty short chapter. The plot is not over, but I am debating on continuing it within this story, or creating a sequel. I have a whole entire twisted case thought up that relates to the murder of Sherlock's father and uncle. It might also involve our favorite consulting criminal. That part of the story will be a lot more exciting, and it will take place in present day. Plus it will feature a whole lot more of John:) So please review and give me your opinion if I should create a sequel, or continue writing it through this. Thanks! –Shiloh_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**_

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock Holmes

"And there you have it." I stated simply, raising my gaze from the floor to meet my older brother's eyes. Tears threatened to spill from the green orbs he had inherited from my mother, and it scared me. I had never seen Mycroft cry.

My own emotions had disappeared half-way through my narrative. The familiar cold numbness that I had started to experience at age six had slowly quelled the feelings of anger, sadness, guilt, regret, and pain that had surfaced at the sight of the two bodies.

It was as though my mind couldn't handle the emotions, and it prevented me from feeling any of them. A cold wall had been constructed around my brain, guarding me from all sorts of unpleasant feelings. My wall had only cracked a few times, most of them related to situations where John had been placed in danger. Today, though, it had completely caved in, exposing my pain to the world around me. My heart ache had taken control of my logical thought process a few minutes ago, but I was back in control now. My walls had repaired themselves, and almost every feeling of sadness I had been experiencing had disappeared.

Instead, a new feeling of embarrassment tinted my cheeks a slight pink. I had fled a crime scene in front of Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade, and John. Crying. I was never going to live this one down.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Mycroft's hoarse voice startled me out of my train of thought, and I looked into his eyes, a rare streak of sympathy washing over me. I pulled him into a hug, rubbing small circles into his back. It was my turn to comfort him.

"It's alright. It's ok." I mumbled as the strong, emotionless government official that was my brother, sobbed into my shirt. I wrapped one of my hands around him, desperately trying to provide my only brother the comfort he desired.

Mycroft lifted his head up from its resting place on my shoulder, and our eyes met yet again. A deep, raw, heart-wrenching pain stared at me. I turned my head as I heard the loud, hopeless wails of my mother transmit over the phone Mycroft had dropped on the leather seats of the police car. The dreadful feeling of guilt greeted me, slapping me across the face.

This was all my fault. I had caused this. I hadn't solved the riddle. My father and my uncle were dead because of me, and my stupidity. I hadn't been able to think through all of my panic, and that fault had cost my father and his brother their lives. I had just sat there, while two of the most important people in my life were murdered, because I couldn't figure out a stupid riddle.

A strangled sob escaped my lips before I could stop it. My newfound composure shattered, and a titanic amount of tears streamed down my face. I had never felt this terrible in my entire life.

"It's all my fault. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I whispered, my voice cracking. My shoulders shook as sobs coursed through my body. I hung my head in despair, annoying locks of curly hair draping over my eyes.

Suddenly, strong hands gripped my shoulders, and a hand gently pushed my chin up. I found myself staring into Mycroft's eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time. His jaw was set in fierce determination, and his eyes burned with concentration.

"Sherlock Holmes, what happened was not your fault." He enunciated each word slowly, each word ringing in my ears. I stared at him stunned. "You have been living with that idea for too long. I need you to know that you are wrong, and that I love you, and that mummy, and daddy, and uncle love you too."

We sat in silence, my mouth hanging open in shock. The only noise that could be heard within the car, was the subtle hum emitted by the two phones resting on the seat. John and my mother were both utterly silent.

"I love you too." I replied, and I could see Mycroft's eyes shine with happiness. We hadn't spoken those words to each other in at least two decades, and I had feeling that we wouldn't repeat them for an even longer period of time.

Mycroft leaned forward, and wrapped me in a hug. I didn't pull away or protest. Instead, I returned his warm gesture, a rare feeling of happiness settling in the pit of my stomach.

I had finally gotten rid of the story that had haunted and tormented me since childhood. My family was finally aware of what had happened on that horrid day twenty eight years ago, and they didn't blame me for what had happened.

I pulled away from Mycroft slowly, the edges of my lips turning up into a faint smile. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the spark in my eye, and my grin grew wider on my face.

"I know the answer to the riddle." I said simply.

"Naturally." Mycroft replied evenly, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips.

"Use the unlimited supply of rope to create a walk-way between the two pillars. You can do this by simply letting it pile up on the ground until it reaches the height of the pillars you are standing on, and fills in the width between them. Throw the rock onto your makeshift bridge to make sure it won't collapse if you are feeling insecure."

"And the twig?"

"Throw it at the idiot who created that stupid riddle."

_Please Review and give your opinion towards the continuation. Big thanks to all who have reviewed! –Shiloh._


End file.
